


The Claw, the Blade and the Antler

by NoisyBird



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beating, F/M, Fluff, Slow Burn, Violence, direwolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-04-25 14:45:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14380839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoisyBird/pseuds/NoisyBird
Summary: Let's follow three men in Modern Westeros. Three men with minor family issues...A chapter = A POVFic centered around Tywin Lannister, Roose Bolton and Stannis Baratheon. If you hate those characters, you may want to not read this.Otherwise, I hope you'll have fun.





	1. Pour alcohol on a fire...

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there. First fic posted. I must say English is not my native language, so if you find any typos/mistakes/awkwardness in the writing, please feel free to comment. I need to improve !
> 
> I really don't know how much chapters this story will have. Several, I guess. I'll try to update every two weeks, depending of my internship.
> 
> Hope you'll have fun reading this !

Tywin was angry. Furious, even. Carefully, he had extracted himself from the crowd, escaping the Tyrell. Especially Olenna. That old thorn would have been way too much happy to witness his dark mood. He didn’t want to lash out at his family. Not in a public event. He knew his control would slip tonight.He had retreated near the end of the bar, asking for a drink, letting the quick burn of alcohol relieve a bit his fury. He relaxed slowly, enough to observe his surroundings.

That’s when he noticed an iced stare.

A man was watching him, smirking. Middle height, receding brown hair, thin lips. He raised his glass. Began his approach, casually. Tywin stiffened. He didn’t know him. And yet the other man made the old lion uncomfortable. His unease fueled his anger. He quickly gulped the end of the gin, forgetting to savor the drink. He glared at the man who was now leaning against the bar, a meter away from him. The other returned his stare. Golden green against grey ice.

The barman interrupted them.

\- Water, please.

Tywin frowned.

\- At the bar and not even drinking properly ?  
\- It dulls the senses, answered coolly the man.

The Lannister nodded. Then asked the barman another drink.

\- You have something to dull.

Tywin nodded again, didn’t even bother to make a sentence. The man smirked. Again. And the old lion hated it. He didn’t need a perceptive bastard right now.

Not when the divorce between Robert Baratheon and his daughter would be announced in a few days. The consequences on the Lion’s Company would be disastrous. A hell to sort out. He was a hard worker and couldn’t fully live without cooking a plot somewhere. And still the perspective of the coming months was not enjoyable. At all.

Dulling his senses, uh. It was merely the beginning of it. Because his children and grandchildren seemed to throw his legacy off. And nowadays, he spent more time correcting the effects of their stupidity than enriching the company.

He seemed to work against the stream, alone. And for the first time in thirty-five years, he was, maybe, a little tired. He refused to accept it. Yet, he couldn’t reject the loneliness that crept near the borders of his brilliant mind.

He gulped his drink again. He, Tywin fucking Lannister, needed support. The mere idea extorted him a gloomy chuckle. He asked for a third glass.

\- I guess you’re not the best drinking companion I could have.  
\- Depends of your ability to drive at the end of the evening.

Tywin snorted.

\- Do you drink sometimes ?  
\- It happens. But not when I am working.

The lion cocked a sceptical eyebrow.

\- My name is Roose Bolton. I’m responsible for the security of the evening.

The iced eyed man handed him a card.

\- We are reliable and discreet. And we may extend our services, if needed.  
\- You don’t look like the average gorilla bodyguard.  
\- No, I am the man who commands the average gorilla bodyguards.

Tywin fixed the ice eyes. Bolton held his gaze coolly. The man was cunning. And where the old lion had learned to control his feelings and put up a convenient mask, the other seemed to don’t feel at all.

The Lannister could at least put words on his unease.

 

* * *

 

A bloody headache. Great. The old lion rubbed his temples, slowly. Carefully. He checked the clock. 9 AM. He should have begun work at least one hour ago. Damn.

He remembered clearly the evening.

He had drunk one more glass with Bolton last night. Then, the hour had turned appropriate enough to retire. Once at home, he had opened a bottle of Dornish wine. He hadn’t puked. But still, he had drunk too much.

And this morning, he was paying the price.

He stood up. His damn knees were weak. He hesitantly went to the bathroom, put his head under fresh water. This did little to clear his fogged mind. Still, he was feeling better. He drank directly at the faucet. Then he rummaged in the medicine cabinet, gulped two pills.

His phone rang. He rejoiced his bedroom, checked the screen.

Kevan. Could have been worse. He picked up.

\- Tywin, what happened ?

Dear brother. To the point, uh.

\- I am sick.  
\- Sick ? I’ll call a doctor right away. Knowing you, you haven’t done it.

Tywin sighed deeply.

\- No need, Kevan. I got drunk.

Hopefully, it would cut this display of brotherly care. He was wrong.

\- You’re serious ? Damn. Of course you are. What on Earth…?

Suddenly, Kevan shut his mouth. Then spoke again, slowly.

\- Cersei and Jaime.  
\- Yes.

One could say his answer was a clipped one. Yet his brother understood, was silent for a while.

\- When do you intend to go to the head office ?  
\- After lunch, I guess. Expect me at 1PM at worst.  
\- Good. I’ll reschedule your morning and take care of the main meetings. See you later.

Tywin hung up. His headache wasn’t going any better. He needed to rest. The mere thought made him clench his jaw.

He went slowly to the kitchen. He had nothing to eat there. He had always ordered food or bought it on its way to the office. Right now, he hated this fact. He quickly searched through his list of restaurants. He needed something simple, solid, that wouldn’t disturb his stomach more.

Here. One place was specialised in pasta. He checked the menu, made his choice, called them. Then, he contacted his delivery man, asked him a solid breakfast and let him know about his lunch also. He drank more water, made a huge pot of tea. He sipped the first cup, waiting. At the end of it, his breakfast arrived. Fresh bread, simple pastries. He ate slowly, almost automatically. Didn’t even register the taste of the food. His thoughts wandered.

Cersei and Jaime. The only ones who knew were Kevan, Eddard Stark, Stannis Baratheon and his brother, Robert. Who would soon be Cersei’s ex-husband.

They had decided to keep it a secret, especially regarding the children. At this time, Tywin could only praise the honorable and serious nature of the Stark’s patriarch and Robert’s elder brother. Both men had been inflexible about the divorce but had also calmed down the husband’s ire. This stupid fat and whoring man was lucky.

Alcohol had done nothing to douse the old lion’s fury. Even his brother couldn’t stand on equal footing with him and tell him something like “Fuck off and stop raging”. He had no friends. So the only one responsible for his composure was himself. And he didn’t want to regain one.

He frowned, gritted his teeth. He caressed his anger. Nurtured her.

He would have to meet his twins. In private. And then… Then he would unleash the Seven Hells on them.

Those thickheaded idiots had slept together. Fucked each other. Sired three children. They had kept ruining the Lannister name, day after day. And he had repaired each of their mistakes. Until today.

He would get rid of Cersei and Jaime. Whether they agreed or not, he would pull them apart. He had worked way too hard. He had never really been desperate about his older cubs. He had always hoped they would come to their senses, stop drinking, throwing tantrums and being bloody irresponsible. And yet he hadn’t been able to see the worst about them. Not until proofs were crudely put under his eyes. Damned pictures.

His headache wasn’t going any better. He sighed deeply, went to the living room and leaned on the couch, stretching his limbs.

He breathed, tried to relax. Pointless effort.

 

* * *

 

Kevan Lannister was quietly waiting for his brother in the entrance hall. The Lion’s Company’s headquarters were no less than impressive. Several floors of glass and steel occupied by a good hundred of workers. An efficient hive of activity, controlled by one man, his breath, his mood and his brilliant mind.

When Tywin stormed in, his brother kept silent about his last evening activities. He knew better than trigger the feline’s ire. Not when he barely concealed his anger behind dark green eyes and a deep frown.

To his astonishment, the afternoon was quiet. Sure, Tywin drank more water than usual, but otherwise, no one was fired. His brother remained concentrated and efficient, catching up on the events of the morning. Kevan was relieved and after two hours or so, he stopped checking on his brother. They still had three days before the fateful announcement. Three days of almost serene work.

Around 7 PM, he went to Tywin’s office and knocked.

\- Enter.

Kevan stepped in and reached the desk. He sat, rather relaxed.

\- Should I order food ?

Tywin raised his eyes from the screen. Then Kevan noticed his white knuckles. He stiffened.

\- Go meet Dorna and eat with her and your children.  
\- Tywin…  
\- Don’t “Tywin” me. The twins will be there in 30 minutes.

Kevan bit his lower lips. His brother’s behaviour was similar to his demeanour towards Tyrion after Joanna’s death. He was going to reject his eldest children. Kevan felt powerless. The Tywin in front of him was the adamant one. The lion that no one could sway.

\- Before you leave, contact this man and see what he can do regarding our security services.  
\- They are serious guards, Tywin.   
\- Yes. But this one is skilled. Cunning, to be exact. We may need this kind of competence within the next months.  
\- Have you already met this… Roose Bolton ?  
\- Yes.  
\- And ?  
\- I don’t want him at our enemy’s side. You may go. Have a good evening, brother.

Kevan shook sadly his head and left without a word. When Tywin was in this state, nothing could be done.


	2. Enter the den

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, chapter 2. Hail to the holidays.  
> Don't hesitate to comment, I absolutely love critics ! I've also replaced my "-" by propers " ". I will edit the chapter one next week I think.  
> If someone is interested in beta-reading, I would be glad and grateful about it :)
> 
> About the fic itself, the three characters I'm working on are part of the coldest in GoT, but they are also humans. I'm trying to convey that feeling. They may be badass but they also have their flaws, their doubts and... Anyway, I'm trying. 
> 
> Also, you may want to grab some popcorn.

Stannis scowled. Deeply. With the scandal incoming, he had been forced to spend more time with his dear brothers. Renly was freaking out because of the divorce and the problems it would bring to the company. As a chief communications officer, he was lashing out at Robert’s antics, trying to get him to behave before breaking the big news. Stannis was a bit relieved. At least his permanent frowning face wasn’t anymore a target. But he had still to endure Renly’s nervousness. He had never seen his younger brother stressed like this. Except maybe during his coming out. It was nerve-racking.

And Robert was… His typical self. A hundred times worse. Seeing him was enough to transform his brain into a full percussions’ orchestra. The eldest Baratheon was furious. And had been drunk during most of the week. Stannis, as the chief operating officer, was covering for him. Not that Robert was a very efficient CEO, anyway. But even if he was fat and overindulged in whoring and drinking, he knew how to make people comfortable. That was downright frustrating. Stannis ground his teeth. His knuckles became white, gripped on the wheel. He breathed deeply, checked his speedometer. He slowed down. It would not do to be busted by policemen tonight. 

It has to be him, of course. It was always him. The COO of Baratheon Inc. relished his exasperation. Yet, a part of his brain called him an hypocrite. He had had the choice, after all. Take care of his drunk brother or Tywin Lannister. He had let Robert in Ned’s expert hands, of course. At least, he was not used to the old lion. It would be a new experience… 

Nevertheless, he dreaded a bit tonight’s meeting. He was not announced. Didn’t want to be. They had to discuss about the children, and any scheduled meeting would be spied upon too easily. But yet, going to the Lannister patriarch’s place… Robert would have said it was  a ballsy move. He knew he was able to stand his ground in front of the lion. Having the upper hand would be difficult, of course. But at least, he was making the first steps towards his goal. On this positive thought, he checked his GPS and reviewed his arguments.

 

* * *

 

 

Stannis hailed the security guards at the entrance, stopped under their cold stare. He returned it with a deep blue glare of his own. 

“I am here to see Tywin Lannister.”

“Do you have an appointment ?”

“No. I am Stannis Baratheon. Call him. It is urgent”.

He frowned, straightened and used a commanding voice. The name and the look of a Baratheon were not unknown, even to bodyguards. One of the men made a call and then quickly ushered him towards a lift. The ascension was silent. Not that Stannis was fond of small talk, anyway. Soon enough, he was in front of the Lannister’s door. The penthouse. Obviously. One of the guards let him enter and then retired. 

Stannis walked slowly towards a huge open space, a sort of kitchen-dining-living room. The old lion sat on the sofa, an empty glass on the coffee table. 

“What are you doing here, Baratheon ?”

His voice was… Slurred ? Stannis frowned, restrained his newfound anger. Damn, he had not let a drunkard for another. He gave up all pretenses of politeness he was willing to bestow upon the Lannister. He uttered no word, his stride resolute until he reached the table. He stopped, standing tall and straight, towering over the other. He searched the green golden eyes with his own stormy ones. Stannis received a furious glare, returned it with a renewed rage. He was used to Robert’s tantrums. He would not cower.

The old lion was suddenly standing in front of him, his motor coordination apparently unaffected by alcohol. Stannis felt a little smug as he was still looking down on Tywin Lannister. Be the Baratheon’s stature blessed !

“I won’t repeat it a third time. Why are you barging into my home, at an inappropriate hour ?”

He had detached each of his word. He had a good commanding tone, one that could probably reduce his employees to small afraid puddles. Well, he was not one of them, right ? He repressed the inconvenient chill that was running down his spine. He had entered the den and poked the lion’s ribs. He was not going to lose his composure. And so, Stannis answered with a clear and authoritative voice.

“I am here to talk about the children, since you are the only one rational person aware of their bloodline on the other side of the table. At least that’s what I thought.”

He let a bit of disappointment tint the end of his sentence. Now that he had poked Tywin Lannister, going further couldn’t been worse. And was gratifying, in a kind of suicidal way, of course.

“How. Dare. You ?”

Stannis threw lightly the envelope on the sofa, keeping his cool.

“Here are Robert’s demands. Basically, he wishes to see the children during holidays. Also, he wants to have a say in their education and be involved in their schools’ choices.”

The middle Baratheon noted with an awful satisfaction that the green eyes went wide. But the lion quickly retorted, tone full of ice shards.

“The children are Lannister’s ones. He has not to be involved in their future.”

“Well, it would be strange if he wasn’t, right ? The gossip blogs would be too happy to drag their names through the mud. They don’t have to suffer for their parents’ mistakes.”

Tywin Lannister sighed.

“So be it. I don’t care anymore.”

Then he walked away from the sofa, under Stannis’ curious gaze. He rummaged in a closed, came back with a bottle and a glass. His behaviour was amiss.

“Need a drink ?”

Stannis’s eyes went wide and he knew he probably looked at the Lannister’s patriarch in utter disbelief. He restrained his fury, reducing it to a righteous anger.

“I am not drinking when I am working.”

His tone was sharp and cold. The lion stopped near the table, poured himself a glass, ignoring the one he had already used.

“Save yourself your damned rules and your bloody judgement. I will review those files thoroughly tonight and tomorrow morning. After this, we will discuss. Now, scram and go wipe away the vomit from your brother’s mouth.”

“How dare you ?”

Stannis’s knuckles went white. He held the murderous green glare of Tywin Lannister, standing still, stiffening.

“I won’t repeat myself thrice. Go away and let me celebrate my family’s foolishness. I’ll make Cersei agree to a joint custody.”

“We are not talking of a joint custody here. You were not even agreeing about Robert’s involvement in their education !”

“I am talking about it now. For the sake of the children. The less they are under their mother’s influence, the better. Concerning Joffrey, neither my daughter nor Robert will have a word in his schooling. I’ll take care of it. Myself.”

The look on the Lannister’s face was almost feral. Stannis was shocked. Not by his ferocity, but by his honesty. And more, he was obviously blaming his family and going behind their backs. It was beyond understanding.

“Why ?”

Tywin Lannister cocked an eyebrow. His gaze was somewhat softer. Meaning, he was still fixing Stannis icily.

“You may precise your question, Baratheon.”

“Why are you going against your daughter ?”

The Lannister shrugged. The gesture was strange, and he seemed to have sobered during the conversation. Also, his glass remained full.

“As a matter of fact, I met my twins earlier. Jaime had at least the decency to be ashamed. It seems I must take care of the Lannister’s name alone.”

Stannis scowled. His anger was not doused by the shock. 

“Now what, you’re fond of self-pitying ?”

It was not about poking anymore. It was about putting his head between the lion’s fangs. But he was too fierce and dutiful to do it differently.

“What. Are. You. Saying ?”

“I am saying that one of my brothers is a drunkard and the other a bloody irresponsible. At least, you have a brother on which you can count. And… You are also responsible for your children’s education.”

Final blow. Now was the time to retreat. And… He was fucked. Tywin had slowly made his way between him and the door. Was that intentional ? Stannis focused quickly, scanning the patriarch’s face. He was good at observing others’ feelings. Not handling it. Right now, the Lannister wavered between absolute rage and complete breakdown.

“Be damned Baratheon… You could have spared me the pictures.”

Breakdown it would be. Stannis was ready to retort when a sordid idea crossed his mind. What if… He was seeing Shireen with someone else ? He shook his head quickly.

“Would you have trusted the DNA tests then ?”

His voice was deep and he had adopted a serious but softer tone. His anger was gone. 

“Pitying me ?”

And now fury. Damn, the lion was resilient.

“No. I have a daughter. I can’t even imagine…”

“Great. Don’t. Now, go out.”

Tywin Lannister moved aside and Stannis quickly went to the door. He was not cowering away, just using the offered way out. Right ?

 

* * *

 

 

When he was in his car, Stannis breathed deeply. He has lost his temper with the great lion. Stupid. And… He had to talk to Robert about the joint custody. Seven fucking damned hells. He needed a drink. And a call to Davos.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it and that the work on the dialogues was not that bad.  
> Btw, Tywin's decision will be explained further but... Let's say that his discussion with the twins was not what he had expected.


	3. He doesn't like sweets... Right ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took me a bit more time. Well, I may also have doubled the words compared to the two past chapters...  
> Time to add some tags !  
> Thanks for reading me, don't hesitate to comment and criticise it (I explain the way I tried to write the characters at the end).  
> Oh and... Roose's POV. Hope I got it not that bad.
> 
>  
> 
> And this time I'm not forgetting it : the characters belong to GRR. Martin and I'm just messing around with them.

Roose stopped in front of the café. At this early hour, the place was almost empty, save two old men. The sign was bright, colored in yellow and pink. Little circular iron tables were packed near the entrance, not installed today. It had caught his eyes. Strange. At this hour, he had always to avoid an offensive piece of painted metal.

He entered the place. It was luminous and welcoming. The bright colors were declined in pastel ones, softening the atmosphere. 

The best adjective describing the place was… Cute.

Roose Bolton didn’t like cute places. But here he was, in the only one damned café in this part of the town where people were selling a correct - no, really good, if he had to be honest - black coffee. No cream, no caramel or sweet additions. Coffee at its simplest.

He went to the counter and was presented a steaming cup, without a word. He didn’t let his surprise show and kept his cold mask in place. When he asked his question, his tone was even, indifferent.

“What is that ?”

“Black coffee, steaming, no sugar, no cream, no whatever.”

The plump woman behind the counter had answered with a cheerful tone, shooting him a knowing smile. Roose took the cup silently, giving her the exact amount of money needed. Then, he stared at her, held her soft brown gaze with his hard iced one. He spoke, almost a whisper.

“How do you know ?”

“Well, you have come here every morning for one week between 6h40 and 6h45 AM. And you always buy the same cup. It’s not difficult to know.”

She definitely didn’t know how to whisper. And she was more observant than what he had thought first. Well, here habits didn’t kill yet and he enjoyed her coffee. 

“What if I wanted another cup ?”

“Well you would defy my expectations.”

“Defy them ?”

“You are quite obviously a man of habits.”

“Because I drink black coffee every morning ?”

His tone was lightly mocking.

“You grow a 3-days beard but it is clean-cut, meaning you are using a razor every morning. From what I can see, your wallet is tidy. Also, your attire is perfectly ironed. You appreciate well defined things and often this trait goes with the habits.”

Roose didn’t repress an amused smirk. She had deserved it, after all. 

“Well, today I won’t challenge your observations.”

He turned and began his leave.

“Have a good day !”

She shot him her always cheerful smile with her always cheerful goodbye. This time, without thinking, he answered softly, barely moving his head and already pushing the door.

“Have a nice day too.”

On his way to the Lion’s Company office, he remembered the tables. And the fact that he had forgotten to ask about them. Unsettling.

 

* * *

 

 

Sunday morning. He had reviewed carefully the weekly balance sheets done by his accountants. Though he had nothing to worry about, with the Lannister’s contract. He would not been forced anymore to rely on events and irregular missions. Meaning, he had not to spend his weekend prospecting and checking calendars of concerts, festivals and galas. He had nothing to do. His twenty years young self would have doubled his drills and gone on a long run. Well, he was near his fifties and had already completed his daily exercises. 

Weary.

The word struck him. Of course, he knew, deep down. He was not a green boy anymore. His joints sometimes ached a bit on a rainy day, prematurely worn out after all those dangerous years. 

He didn’t know what to do. But staying in his flat wouldn’t help. He quickly changed into his grey jeans, a burgundy t-shirt and a thick black leather jacket. He completed it with low black boots and a grey scarf. Rainy day. 

Once outside, Roose wandered in the streets. His apartment was not far away from the Lion’s Company headquarters, in case his subordinates would have problems, even during his days off. The autumn weather was clement, remainder of a too long summer. He almost longed for the cold. Snow, ice, wind and grey-white sky. He would probably spend a bit of time at the family’s house during the winter. He needed to prepare the old mansion. One of the wing had fallen into disuse, too expensive. He had only preserved the main part, the most practical and the one in which he had spent most of his time. After all, the Dreadfort was not receiving a lot of guests and he didn’t need additional chambers.

The first drop of water ran on his forehead and down the side of his nose. He brushed it by instinct, still thinking about the mansion. 

But soon enough, he was distracted from his line of thoughts. Thoroughly. By a fucking storm. Water poured hard on his head and his shoulders. He scanned quickly his surroundings. 

Yellow and pink. Without hesitation, he rushed in. A clear metallic sound rang out in the empty place. Startled, he rose his head, discovering tiny metal tubes bumping each other.

“Ho. That’s the doorbell. I installed it yesterday ! Do you like it ?”

He glared at her. 

She laughed. 

He narrowed his eyes, his lips becoming a pale scar across his face. He was angry. Because of a laugh. Damn, he was not Tywin Lannister whose ire and pride were triggered by the lightest slight. He was more composed than that. He shook his head and his shoulders, sending little droplets of water around him. He took off his wet jacket and put it on a hook. Then, Roose Bolton walked slowly to the counter, almost gliding on the wooden floor. He gazed coolly at the woman, not letting his eyes quit her soft brown ones. When he arrived in front of her, she was almost squirming. Ill at ease. Perfect. He watched her swallow, the corner of his lips twitching slightly. 

“My coffee isn’t ready.”

He had kept his tone indifferent and was rewarded by a worried look and apologetic babblings. Inwardly, he was pleased. He didn’t really like being unsettled. A little cough drew his attention. A huge cup of steaming coffee was standing on the counter. He was taking his wallet when his eyes were drawn to the pastries. He was not overly fond of sweets but he had time to spare and he had to challenge her. He was careful to keep his features cold. Even if the situation amused him a little. He was absolutely not a funny person.

“Could you suggest one of those pastries to me ?”

She was biting her lips. Finally she sprang into action, going behind the vitrine. She watched the cakes during a good minute, apparently thinking carefully. Then she spoke, her tone hesitant.

“What do you like ? If I may, you don’t seem a sugar person.”

“I am not. Well, I do not like overly sweet things. But I may appreciate a little treat, sometimes.”

“Not to sweet then. Dark chocolate or lemon would do ? If it would, you can try the chocolate tart or the lemon one.”

Roose quickly glanced over the two cakes. He loved lemon and if he was sometimes indulging himself with a sugary drink, it would be lemon flavored. But it had been ages since he had last eaten chocolate. Well, it was a rainy day.

“Chocolate tart it is.”

He paid and sat with his order near the wall… And the radiator. The seat was comfortable and soon he stretched his legs, relaxing. The black coffee smelt wonderful. He had a sip and then tasted the tart. Not so sweet, crispy batter and… Good chocolate. He may indulge himself more often. He was still exercising a lot and a sugary treat per month wasn’t excessive. He savored his coffee, nibbling at his cake. When he finished his cup, he asked for water. Order a second one was not reasonable. And he was definitively not a caffeine addict. 

He stayed here, sipping water and watching rain pour outside, drenching the street and a few unlucky passerbys. A cheerful exclamation drew his attention suddenly.

“All done !”

He chose to ignore it and pointedly fixed the windows again. He heard footsteps. She was sitting in the facing seat. Roose searched her eyes. Annoyed. He didn’t like smiles and laughter and overbearing joy.  And she was exactly all that.

Moreover, it was raining. Hard. Meaning that escaping her would cost him an unwanted shower. No thanks. Sure, he was used to difficult weather. But when he could avoid it, he did.

So he fixed her coolly, daring this plump little woman to stay here.

She talked.

Gods, she was oblivious !

He did not answer. At all. Of course, he knew how to be perfectly polite. But well, he chose to not put that graceful knowledge in practice.

She stopped. But she stayed here, stubborn as hell. 

Finally, the rain stopped. Putting money on the table, he left without a word.

 

* * *

 

 

He was sick. Fever and headache and cough. Saturday afternoon. He could barely stand, less make food. He had not eaten since yesterday evening. And he knew he needed food. He needed help. And he couldn’t stand his subordinates to be aware of the situation. He had to contact someone that was not close to him, someone he could trust to not harm him. Well, a delivery boy would probably not harm him. But he had not survived all those years without being awfully careful. And may dangerous informations came to knowledge, he would be a target. Men like him could retire. But under some circumstances, their very existence would not be forgotten at all. He was always watched. They knew where he lived. And right now, he was vulnerable.

He was not paranoid.

He forced his thoughts to be practical again. Someone he could trust.

Yellow and pink. Overbearing joy. This could work. She was too gentle to not help him, even if he had not come to her shop for the past five days. 

He searched on his smartphone, found the shop number. He hit the call button.

“Hello, you’re at Walda’s ! What can I do for you ?”

“Good afternoon.”

Gods, but he could barely speak. He continued nevertheless.

“Roose Bolton speaking. Black coffee.”

“Oh. What can I do for you, sir ?”

Her tone was a bit colder. He coughed heavily.

“I’m sick. I know you don’t deliver usually, but I need food and I can pay you extra because of the inconvenience. Could you bring me an order after you closed your shop at 6’ ?”

Here. He knew how to be polite. And he had spoken too much. His coughing fit lasted a good minute. He doubled over, putting the phone away from his mouth and spitting mucus in a kleenex. His abdominal muscles wouldn’t need exercises for three days at least. Roose put the phone against his ear again.

“Still here ?”

“Yes. Give me your address, please.”

Cheerful but efficient, uh. He gave her the information needed. And she hung up.

He let his head fall on the pillow. She had hung up on him. Without even asking what he needed. Well, she would bring him something, since she had asked for his address. She was not one to give false hopes. She was gentle. He snorted. Coughed again.

He was feverish and tired. He drank a bit of water and tried to relax his sore muscles. 

 

* * *

 

 

An insistent tone. High pitched. Repetitive. A door bell. His door bell.

He woke up completely and tried to stand up. He nearly fell and braced himself against the wall. He breathed deeply, coughed. Finally, he walked to the door, feeling dizzy. He checked the hour. It was probably her. 

“Hi.”

She fixed him, at first open-mouthed. Her usual happy features were nowhere to be seen. She looked worried. Gods, his external condition was probably horrible. 

“You look like a skeleton !”

External condition confirmed. He stepped back, noticing the shopping bag in her left hand. She entered quickly, closed the door and fixed him. 

“On your bed or your sofa, I don’t care. But you shouldn’t stand at all.”

She has dared commanding him ! And gods, she was right. He stumbled to his living-room under her watchful stare. He had no energy left to retort. At least, it was obvious she was worrying and maybe caring a little for him, so he wasn’t in danger. He sat on the sofa, watching her warily.

She was in the open kitchen, at one end of the living-room. And she was rummaging through his cupboards. Damn, but she was good at triggering his annoyance and his anger.

“What do you think you’re doing ?”

His voice was raspy and he finished his sentence with a long coughing fit. His authority was completely credible. Of course. He waited for her answer, trying to glare at her. But the lamp - and his aggressive light - was in his line of sight. What a great way to worsen a headache !

“I am cooking.”

“I’ve never asked… Gods, didn’t you just bring coffee and a salted tart ?”

“No, I didn’t. Obviously, coffee is not recommended in your state. You will get it - and a wonderful chocolate tart - Monday morning. From now on, you’re going to be nice, eat the hot and healthy meal I am cooking, take a shower, your pills and go to sleep.”

“Damn woman, I’m not a child !”

“No, you’re sick, that’s worse.”

“Get lost.”

“Oh, I can, especially after the way you treated me Sunday. You consider yourself superior to me, right ? I am a way too gentle and stupid baker and you know you can take advantage of my nature.”

Her voice had lowered somewhat during her tirade. She was talking way too much for his headache. And even if she was aware that he was using her, she chose to be here. He did not understand.

“Why are you here ?”

“Because you don’t like to rely on someone. And yet you asked for help. By the way, you sounded quite miserable.”

“Many thanks for this clarification.”

His tone was cold and dry, his control slipping. He was probably scowling and narrowing lips and eyes. Damn this woman.

“Only the truth angers.” 

She was grinning cheerfully. No one had made fun of him. Not in a very long time. Not without terrible consequences. Sadly, he was not in the North or on a battlefield. In the first case, he could have hidden his traces perfectly. In the second one, he would have been allowed to do it, discreetly of course. He was letting his feverish mind drift to flaying. Bare muscles and bones, blood and screams of pain.

Gods. It had been several months since his last “bad blood”. He knew he would have to remedy to this in the next days, when he would be stronger. 

“You okay ?”

Back on Westeros. She fixed his glassy grey eyes, grounded him. Suddenly, his forehead felt fresh and damp. He was relieved. She had put a fresh cloth on his face. Gods. She was gentle. She cared. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt a touch this soft. 

He was aging, to be unsettled that much by a simple gesture.

She let him on the sofa. He dozed off.

She woke him softly, with a steaming bowl of soup and a pasta dish. He ate without a word, under her stare. His headache was far away and his fever had diminished. He still coughed as hell.

“Have you finished ?”

He had let some pasta. He didn’t eat much usually, and he was sick.

“Yes.”

His voice was somewhat better. She smiled.

“I’m leaving then. I prepared some more for Sunday. If your condition is worsening from now until tomorrow, call me.”

She left with her shopping bag and her cheerful grin.

After a while, Roose stood up and went to his bathroom. He was feeling good enough to take a shower. Much better. Then he took his pills and fell on his bed. He was falling asleep when a detail unsettled him. His sheets smelt fresh. Not rancid from sweat and sickness.

Damn this woman.

The corner of his lips twitched.

 

* * *

 

 

He pushed the door open. 

“What a beautiful Monday, sir Bolton !”

Cheerful voice. And cheerful grin. Being nice, ugh.

“Good morning.”

Roose had spoken softly, almost a whisper, his voice still raspy. They were alone. He got closer to the counter, holding her gaze as he walked. 

“And a steaming cup of black coffee. Anything else ?”

He weighed his options while she was waiting an answer. She was cheerful, warm and caring. Annoying and unsettling. Why was he here already ? 

She was waiting without a word, still grinning widely. Gods. Of course. The tiny part of his damned brain that was not reasonable was, for an unknown reason, attracted by a way too young and happy plump creature. Beyond understanding. 

His next words where a whisper.

“Your name.”

She laughed. He waited. Finally she spoke.

“On the sign, sir Bolton. I’m Walda.”

He put the money on the counter, took his cup and left. An utter mess. Somewhere along the way, he had thought that he was near his fifties and he was safe. No one had ever broken his shell, not since he was fourteen. He hadn’t seen it coming. He felt.

He really needed to come to terms with his brains. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Walda. Yes.  
> Not totally a canon Walda, though. I needed her a bit different from canon, because her background in this modern setting has consequences. To explain quickly, let's say that reaching her goal and being independant have only been possible because she has a kind of strength. Not the obvious one. (and not to mention she will need it with dear Roose Bolton)  
> I'll develop later, of course !
> 
> Concerning Roose, he has feelings, of course. But the way I tried to picture it, he is absolutely avoiding strong ones, may it be joy or anger or sadness. He can be annoyed, bored, amused. But those are kind of mild feelings, I guess... I don't know if it works well. Maybe I've written him feeling too much. I don't know, and I'll probably adjust through the other chapters.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it, at least a little.
> 
> I do love placing our three men in awful situations. Well, I guess I've seen too much situations in which they are in control or have the upper hand somewhat (except for the deadly ones...). So I'm having a bit of fun here. Don't blame me (or do and I'll continue anyway ;) )


	4. Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. I struggled a bit with this one and RL is also kind of stressful currently.  
> Hope you'll enjoy.  
> I also added tags, especially the slow burn one. More to be added when the story will progress.
> 
> All the characters are owned by GRRM and I'm just messing around with them.

Tywin rested his chin on his crossed hands, his elbows on his desk. Tonight he would meet with Stannis Baratheon, in a pub. He scowled deeply at this idea. But at least, the public would be less prone to recognise them, especially if the place was a quiet one. After all, the divorce hadn’t been yet announced so Tywin and Stannis faces were not plastered on all screens. At least for now. 

He pushed the meeting in the back of his brain. Right now, he had another problem to take care off. And this one was definitely not reasonable.

Joffrey. His thrice damned grandson had begun a communication degree one month ago. On his orders. And the informations Tywin had received were not good. Joffrey was missing lessons, partying, drinking. His first examinations would be catastrophic. What a shame.

Even Tyrion had been successful during his studies.

Well, the students’ association of King’s Landing University was efficient and had created a mentoring system involving third years helping the first ones. Joffrey would need academic support. His marks were obviously not the reason he had been accepted in KLU.

He also needed to control his movements. But Cersei would threaten any person trying to contradict her eldest son. Except himself.

Seven hells. He was not ready to become a fucking babysitter. But he had had enough of his grandson’s antics. If he was not becoming reasonable, meaning if he didn’t obtain passing marks at the end of the semester, he would send him in a military school. Sadly, the truly last one was North. Near the Wall. Bolton may be able to confirm the great reputation of the college.

 

* * *

 

 

He left his office. KLU was situated on the outskirts of the city. He used the fifteen minutes drive to sharpen his patience. Joffrey would throw a tantrum.

He asked his driver to wait for him. He wouldn’t be long. The mentoring sessions were held in the main building. He waited near the entrance, calling his grandson.

His tone was clipped, commanding and he hung up without letting him the time to answer.

After ten minutes, Joffrey stood in front of him. Wide pupils, pink cheeks, slightly slurred voice. It was 6’ pm.

“Hi grandfather. What brings me the pleasure of your visit ?”

Tywin restrained himself. Gods, this boy deserved a slap. Or two.

“Discipline.”

His grandson’s looks were definitely owlish. And deeply displeased. He continued coolly, fixing the glassy green eyes of the brat.

“From now on, you will attend all the lessons. And you will also go to mentoring sessions. If you don’t obtain passing marks, I will send you in a military school. A northern one. Is that clear ?”

The boy stammered helplessly, mentioning Cersei.

Tywin hardened his gaze. He hated repeating himself.

“I have not yet heard a rational answer. Well ?”

“You… You can’t.”

“You think so ?”

He kept his voice even, his features cold. Inside, he was boiling, of course.

“You’re not my parent.”

A loud thud echoed in front of the building. Joffrey was shocked, his right hand maintained on his soon-to-be red cheek.

“No, you are right. I’m not one of your stupid and irresponsible genitors. Stop your idiotic complaints and come inside.”

The building was an rather new one. With the increase of the number of students, the old ones were not enough. Not enough space, in terms of teaching and living. So they had chosen to create another campus, on the borders of the city.

Contemporary architecture. Geometric shapes, bright colors. Definitely, the new buildings lacked the elegance and the majesty of the original structures.

At least, being able to concentrate on the horrors created by enthusiastic and avant-garde architects was an efficient smoke screen against his grandson’s stupidity. He ignored him pointedly until their arrival in front of a secondary lecture hall. On the doors a notice was taped : “Mentoring sessions”.

He glared at Joffrey.

“Dare to stain our name here and I will make sure that you are freezing North during the five next years.”

“I’m a Baratheon, not a Lannister.”

Careful. He didn’t know. He would never know. Tywin forced himself to be diplomatic.

“Your green eyes and blond hair designate you as a Lannister. Upon seeing you, anyone with a brain and a bit of knowledge can recognise half of your parentage, especially here.”

Joffrey scowled but shut his mouth. What a relief. Though it would probably be a short-lived one.

Tywin pushed the door.

Around forty students were spread across the room. Others, probably the third years, were moving between the rows, discussing and answering questions.

He stayed near the door. Soon they were noticed by a girl with brown and curly hair, and a fair amount of cleavage. 

“Joffrey, I’m glad to see you. And you must be M. Lannister. It is an honor to receive you here.”

Pretty and clever. His grandson’s glassy eyes were glinting with interest. She would obviously be soft with him, her warmth tone and inviting smile being proofs enough. Tywin did not like her grin.

“Who are you, young lady ?”

His tone was cold.

“I am Margaery Tyrell, M. Lannister. I am the coordinator of the mentoring group, currently in my third year in communication.”

The Thorn’s granddaughter. He remembered meeting her the past year. The old harpy would soon be informed of his visit. What a great day…

A sudden burst of red hair caught his eyes. 

“Margaery, I got the new planning and…”

She stopped dead in her track, her blue gaze fixed on Joffrey. Gods, he didn’t need all the damned university ladies fainting in front of his grandson’s good looks. 

Joffrey’s voice made him revise his opinion.

“You… What are you doing here, wolf bitch ?”

Tywin reacted instantly, pushed the idiot out of the lecture theater. A loud slap echoed through the hall.

“You are faster than me, sir.”

Red hair. His tone and gaze were iced. 

The Tyrell girl opened the door.

“San, are you taking care of it ?”

“Yes Marg, don’t worry, I’ll handle.”

Joffrey remained silent, caught between two furious glares. 

Finally, Tywin turned towards the girl.

“May I ask who you are ?”

“I am Sansa Stark, organisational adviser of the mentoring group.”

He could hear a faint northern accent. She was related to the Stark in Winterfell.

“Which major ?”

“Arts, third year.”

“You do know my grandson.”

She nodded and her features hardened. She didn’t seem scared. Tywin focused on her eyes. She was holding his gaze coolly. A deep and clear blue. He spoke again.

“My grandson here is taking his studies with the utmost serious. But he is adapting with difficulty and he would be glad to benefit from KLU’s mentoring. He is of course ready to attend all the necessary sessions.”

Tywin quickly turned his gaze to Joffrey’s, daring him to challenge his words. A silence and a deep scowl were enough of an answer. He seemed to have sobered a little.

“Of course M. Lannister. The mentoring group will be overjoyed to help your grandson.”

“Good. Boy, back to your room, now. Miss Stark, a word in private, please.”

He ushered the red-headed girl near one of the wall. Tywin deliberately towered over her, standing closer than what was appropriate. He didn’t like resorting to his build but she was not easy to intimidate. A northern trait, probably. 

“Miss Stark, I enjoyed your ironic words a while back but don’t make an habit of them. I want Joffrey to work. But the Lannister family is not to be humiliated. Keep yourself in check. Is that clear ?”

“Yes, M. Lannister. Anything else ?”

“Send me a weekly report. I want him to attend all the sessions. If you hear he is missing classes, prevent me.”

He gave her one of his personal card, with his direct mail. Then, he left without adding a word. He had barely enough time to prepare for the pub.

 

* * *

 

 

He was five minutes early. He had had difficulties with his outfit. Casual. He hadn’t worn something casual in public since Joanna. Hopefully, he was still lean. He had found an old jean and a well-fitted but plain off-white V-necked jumper. 

His driver let him two streets away and he walked to the entrance. Wood, what was probably rock music and a few people drinking beer. A tall dark-haired man was leaning against the counter, clad in black clothes. Stannis Baratheon. He joined him.

“What are you drinking ?”

To the point. He didn’t know. He wasn’t used to drink beer. He could afford to be honest.

“Whatever you’ll recommend me.”

“Taste mine.”

Bitter. Not unpleasant. He fixed the barman.

“Serve me the same, please.”

A whisper on his right.

“At least you appreciate stout beer. You may not be that desperate.”

He turned his head, lowered it, to meet pale eyes. The stern voice of the Baratheon startled him, indicating a table in a quiet corner. Bolton followed soon after with a pint in hand. 

They settled. Sipped silently their beers. Finally, the middle Baratheon brother spoke.

“Robert agrees with the joint custody.”

“Good.”

“But he is curious about Joffrey.”

Tywin narrowed his eyes.

“Curious ?”

“About how you are going to manage him.”

Tywin caught the eyes of Roose Bolton. 

“Well, M. Baratheon. M. Bolton here is ready to attest the quality of a northern military establishment, Castle Black. If my grandson does not validate his semester, he will go there.”

Bolton nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

The scowl on the dark-haired man’s face disappeared. He raised his glass.

“To discipline ?”

Tywin narrowed his eyes before relaxing and raising his glass. Here, at this table, each of them knew the true meaning of this word. 

“Did you get him a private teacher ?”

Roose’s voice, soft, barely audible.

“No. KLU has a good mentoring system. And I met someone who will be more than glad to update me on Joffrey’s attendance.”

They stared at him intently. He took another sip of his brown beer. Strangely enough, he felt relaxed. 

“Sansa Stark. Probably related to the ones Winterfell. A pretty red-head and she seemed to deeply dislike Joffrey.”

Stannis ground his teeth, then furrowed his brow. Roose spoke first.

“She is the second child of Eddard Stark.”

“And she dated Joffrey at the end of middle school.”

Stannis’ addition explained her reaction upon seeing Joffrey. He frowned, remembering the cold blue eyes, so clear. Such a contrast with her red mane. Now that the memories flowed and that he wasn’t embarrassed anymore by his grandson, he was realising she was more than “pretty”. If Margaery was all honey, then the young Stark was ice and steel. He couldn’t deny the manners and the cleverness of the Thorn’s granddaughter. But he perceived strength in the red-haired woman. He could appreciate that.

He was deep in his thoughts and raised his gaze when he noticed his glass had become empty.

The others were staring at him, Roose with a thin half-smile, Stannis with a concerned look. Gods. He had briefly forgotten them.

They were silent. The work-talk was over. He would soon be able to extract himself from this place. 

“Have you told your daughter ?”

Well, Baratheon had just crushed his hopes.

“As a matter of fact, I prefer not to be inebriated every two days.”

The dark-haired man was gritting his teeth.

“You are not honest with your own children.”

Tywin sighed inwardly. Be Stannis Baratheon and his mighty rightful judgement be damned.

“It would be a tactical mistake. If Cersei learns about the joint custody before the divorce is announced, she will try to disrupt things. Her throwing a tantrum when the tempest his already upon our families will bring less harm.” 

“So your children, depending the situation, are mere advantages or drawbacks.”

Time to break the man. He had yet to avenge the impromptu visit at his house.

“Would you hide informations from your brother if you were assured he would create another mess ? And since when have you seen your daughter more than during one-week holidays ?”

The Baratheon was clutching his glass, his knuckles turning white. Tywin was rather pleased with himself. Contrary to the man in front of him, his qualms were almost nonexistent. The ones about his children had been recently crushed with the revelations. Once he had set his decision about going against his daughter, there had been no use regretting it. After all, his family was already destroyed. 

He quickly pushed away memories of Joanna and turned his gaze to Bolton’s.

“Do you have any children ?”

His lips thinned almost immediately. Tywin couldn’t picture the man with a lasting female company. Seems he was wrong.

“I had children.”

His voice was almost as cold as ever. But Tywin knew the man a little. Roose Bolton restrained himself. He made a mental note to research the northerner’s progeny. They were probably dead. He didn’t push what was obviously a sore subject.

The heavy silence was broken by a waitress.

“Another drink, sirs ?”

“Three pints, please. Same as before.”

He earned glares from the both younger men.

“Better swallow bitter pills.”

They drank slowly. The silence somewhat lightened. They parted soon after finishing their second drink. When they shaked hands, Tywin felt the animosity had been replaced by a kind of understanding truce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now you have the scene that started the writing of this fic : Stannis, Roose and Tywin drinking and discussing what a hell are their respective families.  
> Because of RL, the next chapter will probably be late.


	5. And the storm began

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of introspection on Stannis' side.  
> Also, the mess has begun !

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY for the late post.  
> Basically, IRL and especially the beginning of an internship in another country.  
> The next chapters of the story are roughly plotted so I should be able to keep a regular schedule from now on.  
> I always appreciate comments and I try to answer to all of them. Don't hesitate to criticise the work, I'm taking it well and want to improve as much as possible.
> 
> Disclaimer : the characters belong to GRR Martin and I'm only having fun with them !

Stannis ground his teeth. The piece of news concerning his brother’s divorce had been published one hour ago. Renly was already assaulted by calls and had accepted the first interviews. 

He was also preparing a schedule and sending ten emails per minute. With a deep sigh, the dark haired man abandoned his mailbox. He would check it the next hour, when things would have calmed down. At least a bit. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs. His eyes wandered on his large and modern desk. Renly’s advice. Black glass, harsh and severe lines, practical.

Stannis stopped his gaze on his phone. A creepy sadness was slowly drowning him. Davos had not contacted him yet. It had been four days since his visit to Tywin Lannister. He bit his lower lip. He couldn’t demand his attention right now. Firstly, his trusted subordinate was somewhere around the world, on a boat and on high seas.

Secondly, he was still getting around his divorce with Marya. They had separated in good terms and were still acquainted. But Davos had nevertheless asked some personal time to adjust to his current life. Truth to be told, his friend had been barely able to join private and professional life during the past years. More than once Stannis had seen him wear a tired look, shadows creeping under his soft eyes. So he had accepted, a month ago, to let him go. Until past week, he had managed without him. Although he had grown more and more bad-tempered... Davos had a talent to soothe him, support his moods and be a buffer between the rest of the office and him sometimes.

He missed him. His presence was essential. And it had necessitated his absence to realise it. He shook his head and checked his screen again. Five minutes of break, thirty mails in. He drummed his fingers on the glass while reading. Robert was already complaining about the earliest interviews, writing something about inhuman waking hours. Those would need him to be ready around 8:00 AM. Stannis arrived a 7:00 AM every morning except Sundays. Because the building was closed.

His personal cellphone rang suddenly, startling him. A message. Davos ?

His eyes widened.

Tywin Lannister.

**I have told Cersei about the children. Tell your head of communication to absolutely not accept any jointed interview. I will also send you our schedule. For the sake of our families, they must not cross roads. I also trust you to keep the planning private**

**T. Lannister.**

 

The next minute, he received the Lannister’s schedule. The SMS seemed dramatic. But the old lion was choosing carefully his words. Cersei’s behaviour was probably akin to murderous.

Stannis sent a mail to Renly on his priority inbox. He would check it soon.

**Got the planning of the lions. Tywin Lannister asked us to keep it private but also make sure that Robert and Cersei don’t see each other in public. Moreover, absolutely avoid any jointed interviews.**

**S.**

Renly was prompt to answer. A flow of emails followed. Stannis took his phone. He had to write to the CEO of the Lion’s Company.

**Done. My brother will take care of the schedule.**

**S. Baratheon.**

He kept it cold. He let his thoughts wander about the Lannister patriarch. Placing his elbows on the desk, he leaned his chin on the top of his hands. He stared at the white wall, remembering.

He had not completely swallowed his attack two days ago, at the pub. Though the old lion had a point and was probably still furious against him, after what happened at his penthouse. Stannis had been angry and rather worried about it. But after replaying again and again the incident, his conclusions had been rather surprising. He had witnessed the old lion crumbling. He had been deeply hurt by his children and the whole event. The dark haired man ground his teeth. He respected Tywin Lannister. Of course, the man was ready to rely on underhanded tactics. But he was sharp, serious and hard-working.

Seeing him in this state had been kind of a shock.

He maybe wrote the next message out of pity. Or out of consideration. 

**Pint, next week ? You or R. Bolton can choose the bar.**

**S. Baratheon.**

They would need a drink. And this way he could also ask the Lannister why he had changed his mind so quickly about the children custody.

A message. Was the old lion bored ?

**Not next week. Tonight. R. B. assured me he knows a good and quiet place. I will send you the address later. T.** **L.**

Obviously, the situation was worse at the Lannister’s headquarters.

**Sure. Can’t leave the office before 8 PM. S.B**

**Not really a surprise. Meeting at 8:30 PM. T. **L.**  
**

**Agreed. S.B.  
**

The end of the morning and the afternoon were gone in a blur.

 

* * *

 

He entered the bar at 8:35 PM. Soon he had a pint in hand and rejoined the two other men. The old lion quirked an eyebrow. Stannis settled, took a large gulp of his stout beer and then, only, answered the silent question.

“Renly put Robert under a discreet watch. He was right to do it. Around 7 PM he was already dead drunk. Eddard Stark was in town so I contacted him and helped to put my brother in his car. Stark will sleep at Robert’s penthouse tonight, and keep an eye on him.”

He finished his explanation with a deep sigh. Then he took of his suit jacket and his tie. He also rolled up his sleeves.

“Better ?”

Roose Bolton, his thin half-smile and his whispers. 

Stannis leaned against the back of his chair, nodding. Then, he added :

“If you are here tonight I suppose your day was worse than mine.”

Lannister’s and Bolton’s eyes crossed. The old lion glared at his beer before speaking.

“I did not think Cersei could break her tantrums records. It is now done.”

“How did you manage ?”

Roose Bolton caught his eyes and answered coolly.

“I managed. Put some strong sedative in her drink. I’ve also asked some of my most trusted men to take care of her.”

Stannis furrowed his brows. He didn’t like it. He knew sometimes he would have punched Robert to unconsciousness. But he had never done it. His next question was sharp, his tone hard.

“Is there something I should worry about ?”

Tywin commented, regal and completely ignoring his jab about the substance :

“You haven’t checked the news and our first interviews.”

Stannis shook his head in denegation, fighting the green gaze head on. He was not going to back because of their underhanded tactics.

“No, not at all. It’s Renly work. I had to take care of our shareholders and business partners.”

“Well she called your brother a fat and stupid drunkard. Along some less distinguished terms.”

He reacted with a dry and ironic tone.

“Good, it corresponds perfectly.”

A whisper on his left :

“Brother issues ?”

Bolton was watching him above the rim of his glass. Stannis scowled deeply, glared at him. The northerner was not the least impressed. He was probably used to the old lion’s furious gaze. Tywin Lannister interrupted their silent confrontation.

“Since you took care of the business side of the whole mess, you noticed the drop in the actions.”

Stannis concentrated on the bald man. He had spent his damned afternoon trying to reduce the economic impact of the divorce and could quote the numbers by heart.

“Of course. They are worried about the links between our two companies. The show that your daughter has put this afternoon has worsened it, from what you are saying. I think we will see its complete consequences tomorrow.”

“Exact. It is obvious that we can’t repair it. The media will fuel on your brother’s infidelity and my daughter’s furor. But we may be able to reduce it.”

“What do you have in mind exactly ?”

“Well, Cersei and Robert cannot cross roads. But we can. Will you accept us shaking hands in public and being seen conversing about business matters ?”

“You want to expose us.”

“I do not like it. But we will be exposed anyway, and at least in this case it can be useful to both of us.”

“I have to talk to my brothers.”

“Sure. But I also know who is running this company. Robert and Renly may present a rather appealing appearance but you are the cogs making things work.”

Pride swallowed Stannis’ mind. Receive a praise from the Lannister patriarch was akin to miracle. He took a sip of his beer, schooling his features. Being praised was not a reason to appreciate the old and too shrewd lion. They arranged the meeting in a clipped tone. Bolton asked him the Baratheon’s security contact. They also agreed about letting Cersei know afterwards. Stannis noticed that slowly, Tywin Lannister was relaxing in his chair. He was himself stretching his legs. Bolton had been leaning against the back of the wooden seat from the beginning. It seemed that they were all weary. They did not drink a second beer and left after less than one hour. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)  
> Comments are always appreciated, being critics or not :)  
> Have a nice day/night everyone !


	6. Meeting family (and consequences )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roose's POV !

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I apologize.  
> Real life and the fact that this chapter was 1) not easy to write 2) between two and three times the length of the past chapters.  
> I am not even sure I got the characters the way I wanted them to be. But I was kind of losing hair on that point so here it is. I'll put a more detailed note at the end and if you have any comments/critics feel free to post ;) I may edit it a bit in the next week.

Roose watched the meeting unfold. It had been held in a Lannister-like manner, of course. By the old gods, the damned lion had reserved the most uptight restaurant of the town. The northerner had almost lost his patience with the director. He had met him himself to negotiate. But the man was though and backed by the Tyrell. He couldn’t really ruffle his feathers. He had in the end imposed his men and their equipment. But they had to wear a tux. And a ridiculous bow tie. Roose irked to tore his own appart. And skin the director, slowly. His men were old mercs, not well-educated guard dogs.

But the most annoying had been the stubborn man trying to forbid their weapons. They wanted to put them under a leash and rip off their fangs. As a result, they had no guns. But they knew well how to hide knives, among other less lethal gadgets.

And here he was, standing in a corner of the huge and classy open-space. A place to see and to be seen. Here no one could avoid the gossip.

The lion had chosen well. Stannis and him were the attraction of the evening. They were talking in hushed tones, suitcases near the table. When the meal was over, they shaked hands. Roose observed Stannis grinding his teeth.

The Baratheon had probably hoped that the divorce would drive away the Lannister’s tribe. But Tywin seemed decided to keep his claws firmly stuck into the stags. Here they were, in a mockery of peace, trying to send a message. Lannister and Baratheon were strong. The thin lips of Roose twitched slightly. He knew better. He was watching the both of them trying to keep the disaster at bay. They were fighting for a name that their families stained again and again. So different in their manners but tracking the same goal. Truly, it was entertaining to see them struggle. Almost in vain.

Roose respected them. Because of this almost. Against all odds, thanks to their shrewdness and their tenacity, progress was made. He was musing about the fact he rarely respected people when his personal phone vibrated. He stepped backwards, checking the screen discreetly.

**Walda : Hi. Have thought about a payback. What about drinking something this week-end (not black coffee of course :P ) ? I could manage with an evening off. PS : choose a place to your liking. You’re more complicated than me after all ;)**

Be this woman damned. She was asking him to hang out. He was coming to those pubs meetings on the Lannister’s insistence. If he was refusing, next week she would probably give him his coffee with sad puppy eyes. Or maybe she would be fierce. She had it in her. He remembered when she had ordered him around. In his own house. He should have been furious. He should have never returned to this pink and yellow warm place. He should have never…

The two businessmen moving drew suddenly his attention. He concentrated on the task at hand, talking to his subordinates.

The crowd of journalist and the way back to the Lannister’s building kept his mind occupied during the rest of the evening. When he went back home, he allowed himself to look again at the offending message. He was musing about how to refuse when he realised two things. One, he would still owe her. Two, he had grown used to her smile.

He was growing soft. Moreover, it was her normal behaviour. She was cheerful and welcoming to everyone. His lips became thin at this thought. 

But she had helped him when he was sick. And now she was asking him out. She could have requested another kind of payback. It meant she genuinely wanted to spend time with him. When he arrived to this conclusion, Roose was stunned. Nobody sane wanted to spend time with him. He would have to ask her why.

To do that, he had to accept her invitation. 

**Roose : Good evening. Just went back from work. Tomorrow or Sunday ?**

His phone rang almost immediately.

**Walda : Tomorrow :) But Om7g, what kind of work are you in to be back this late ?? Going to sleep, need to be up early. Send me the place in the morning ! See you tomorrow :) :)**

“Om7g” ? She, for sure, loved those strange groups of letters and punctuation… Anyway. He could ask her tomorrow. This way, he would fuel a bit the conversation. He was really, really growing soft.

He resolved to stop going to the bakery, after tomorrow evening. 

* * *

 

He was sitting in the corner of the pub. The Giant’s Pint, a northern one. Not the most trendy of the town, but the volume of the music was reasonable enough to talk, and the owners knew what a good beer was. It was rather quiet, even the week-end. She was a bit late. Five minutes. 

It was strangely surprising, not seeing her in her pink apron with bright yellow letters. She had let her brown hair flow freely. They were almost attaining the top of her cleavage, slightly wavy. She was clad in a dark ample dress. One that was masking his less elegant shapes and enhancing her more appreciable ones. The only concession to her apparent love of warm colors was a bright and light scarf, pink and dark grey. She wore almost no make-up, just enough to highlight her soft eyes. She was scanning the room, searching for him. He stood up and approached her.

She beamed at him.

“Good evening, Roose !”

First name basis. But he was not that annoyed. He had got used to her manners. He answered, the volume of his voice barely above a whisper, just enough to be heard in spite of the music.

“Good evening, Walda.”

They went to the counter and Roose ordered his second pint of stout beer. He expected her to have one of those overly sugary cocktails. A girly drink. She asked for gin. Pure. They went to their table and he cocked an eyebrow at her, giving an obvious glance to her glass. She smiled widely and he noticed the mirth in her eyes.

“I thought you loved sugar.”

“Well, in terms of sweets I’m a woman of habits. But in terms of drinks it’s different.”

He said nothing, holding her gaze and clinking her glass with its own. They both drank and she spoke first.

“You totally assumed I would take it fancy and colorful, right ? Something with juice and a bit of rhum and tons of sugar.”

“Yes.”

“You were genuinely surprised.”

He hadn’t hidden his thought so it was not a terrible admission :

“Yes.”

“Good.”

And she laughed. The sound was bright and clear. Usually, he didn’t like being surprised. But her cheerful being was a bit endearing. That’s why he obviously supported her laugh with patience and a light annoyance.

She mostly talked, drinking along the way. When her conversation started to slow down, he asked :

“You use a strange punctuation in your messages. Care to explain ?”

Her expression became owlish. He could see she obviously tried to repress a laugh. He frowned, stared at her with icy eyes. He could only support a certain amount of over-the-top joyful mood. She calmed a bit and began explanations about smileys and sms language.  


* * *

 

Roose frowned. She was almost drunk and her usual happy demeanour was tainted by quick looks of sadness. He wondered what part of her smile was a mask. She was going to order another drink when he stopped her, placing a firm hand on her forearm.

"Enough for tonight."

Her lips curved downward.

"You..."

He cut her protest swiftly.

"You are not here to enjoy. You are here to forget, aren’t you ?"

He could feel a cold anger rush through him. Her look softened and she spoke, her voice a bit slurred.

"You’ right."

He realised, when her sad look remained, that she was not the object of his rage.

"Tell me."

Her expression became one of surprise and her eyes widened.

"But you don’t care."

"I didn’t care."

He emphasised slightly the negation. And as he was speaking, he knew his words were true. She sighed then, and a sad smile crept on her face.

"My family is coming tomorrow afternoon. They are awful. That’s one of the reasons I came to King’s Landing."

Roose squeezed his hand, realising he was still holding her forearm : " Come."

He paid for their drinks, ignoring her complaints. When they were out of the pub, she suddenly stared at him, searching his eyes. He held her gaze, waiting.

"I am sorry. I… I was not just drinking. I was happy to drink with you. It’s just… Please, accept my apologies."

He would have cut rudely anyone else. But his lips curved in what seemed a smile and he whispered, trying to give a soothing edge to his voice.

"You have nothing to be sorry about. I’m walking you home. No complaints about that."

They walked in a comfortable silence until a shaddy building. Roose memorised the street. Walda was still swaying a bit. They entered the place. The elevator was out of service. The walls were old and the paint was fading, but otherwise it was rather clean. She was living on the second floor. He mentally noted the number of her appartment as well.They stopped in front of the door. She was avoiding his gaze, chewing on her bottom lip. He waited. She would probably apologise a bit more or promise him a coffee.

She closed suddenly the distance, smacking her lips on his right cheek. She backed away immediately, flushing a bit.

"Roose, thank you."

And she smiled. A true smile, that reached her eyes and washed away the sadness for a few seconds. He nodded.

"See you tomorrow."

She entered her place and he realised he had completely stiffened. Like he would have been in front of an enemy. She had moved too suddenly. He forced his shoulders to relax before leaving the building. He would not resent his old instincts.

* * *

He was doomed. He sighed. He was not a drama queen. But he was also realistic. He knew he had grown a soft spot for the young woman. She had brought to surface old feelings. Old desires. He looked at the tube linked to his forearm. He was almost finished. He had removed half a liter of his blood. The rage had slowly backed away. The loneliness and the wariness stayed. He didn’t remember feeling this way. Not before Walda. He wanted to hate her for that. He couldn’t. She had made him feel, at least a bit more. Annoyance, amusement, curiosity. The ancient rage he hadn’t experienced in years. He closed his eyes. He knew he would be there Monday morning. 

* * *

 

Her mask was back in place and she was shooting bright smiles to the face of the world. He took his coffee, stayed a bit, searching intently her features. She spoke softly.

“I’ve managed since I was young. No reason I can’t do it this week, even if they are the usual jerks.”

He nodded and went to work. If she had got drunk last evening, it meant she wouldn’t be able to handle them. She knew it. He knew as well, having spotted easily her anxiousness behind her mask. But apparently running on a crazy optimism was her way to cope and face problems. 

* * *

 

Roose checked a last time the weekly planning with his subordinates. Then, he headed out, his pace brisk. He cursed inwardly when he crossed ways with Tywin in the hall. His presence out of his office and the meeting rooms was a rare thing. Bad luck.

“Leaving early ?”

Roose answered quickly, his mouth thinner than usual.

“Some business to take care off.”

He was working for the old lion, but he would be damned before licking his boots. Anyway, the Lannister was not stupid enough to believe this kind of behaviour, especially coming from him. Roose was also the boss of a serious and perfectly efficient company. And basically, if he decided to kill him, even his political and economical powers wouldn’t count. With that in mind, the northerner relaxed slightly. Not a lot of people were able to kill another person coolly and without traces. He didn’t react when Tywin cocked an eyebrow, the silent question hanging in the air. Roose stayed stubbornly mute. He knew how to hold his ground and the old lion’s glare. 

Finally, the Lannister nodded. They each went separate ways. Roose made a mental note to check were Tywin had been.

* * *

He pushed the door and a familiar ring resonated in the bakery. His eyes were immediately drawn to the counter. Two young women talked with Walda, in a familiar manner. Nothing aggressive, but they knew each other and they were not regular clients. He checked the whole room, his gaze falsely casual. Then he approached.

“A black coffee.”

His eyes met Walda’s ones and she understood without a word.

“Of course, sir.”

Clever woman. It had been days since he had properly voiced a coffee order. He paid with a vague thank-you and sat in a corner.

Their nicknames were Ami and Mary. The affection was obvious. Frey family, but apparently not the awful one. He drank very slowly, trying to eavesdrop. They were chatting happily and soon he was no more interested. He ordered the chocolate tart. He needed a pretext to stay. 

Walda, her back turned to the two others, winked at him when she brought his food. She went away almost immediately. He quickly took a bite of his treat, before checking the napkin netly folded. A few words were written.

_ Amerei and Marissa, sisters. Thank you. Do not worry. _

He relaxed and ate normally. Then he went to his home.

* * *

It was Wednesday. He cursed himself before leaving work early, again. He knew something was off before he entered the bakery. A group of teenage girls, regular clients, were leaving, their faces stiff and angry. He steeled himself and pushed the door.

The noise shocked him. Rough and obvious laughters, on a side of the room. The few usual persons were gathered on the other side, staring at what was obviously a pack of Frey. They spoke loudly. A group of young men stood up.

“Hey Fattie ! Can you cook your specialty for us ?”

Roose took a long second to understand they were talking to Walda. She was shooting a questioning eyebrow, trying to hold her calm.

“The grease tart, of course !”

And they were laughing at their stupid joke. An old man joined the party, his grey and scarce hair loosened around his face.

“What, you haven’t yet found a fat guy to feed ? He will need a good appetite, to be able to eat you up !”

The innuendo was obvious. Annoying. And those idiots guffawed again. The young ones were now leaning against the counter, too close. 

“We are waiting our order, dear cousin !”

With a few quick steps, he closed the distance. He spoke softly. He was furious. He felt his blood boil. Song of red and suffering. Memories of old fights. Savages ones, as well. His face remained carefully even.

“I’d like to order a coffee. Let me pass.”

His voice was soft as silk.

Walda stared at him, panic simmering under her round features. She shook her head. He barely registered her movements, concentrated on his current foes. They were cocky.

“Hey Fattie, looks like this one doesn’t know what a queue his. Wanna us to make him learn his place ?”

She didn’t answer, her hands clutched on the wood of the counter. The idiot advanced on him. Roose slightly adjusted his stance.

“Apologise, old man.”

Too close. Too confident. Too young. His ass was hitting the ground two seconds later. The room became deadly silent. He loved it.

The man with the greyish hair stood up.

“You’d better have a good lawyer. I am going to….”

“ENOUGH !”

Walda’s voice, clear and strong. Roose quickly glanced at her. She wore a fierce face, one he felt proud off immediately. He took a step back. Fighting in her bakery had probably not been his best idea.

“Fattie, my dear, call the….”

“Get out.”

The Frey’s patriarch gawked at her a few seconds. Then his wormy lips became a thin and unpleasant line.

“Now now, Walda, you wouldn’t take the side of a stranger against your own family.”

His tone was threatening, falsely honeyed. She was silent a few seconds. When arrogance and triumph were back on the face of the aged man, she cut them sharply.

“For once in a while, I am taking my side. You dare to mess up with my clients, in my bakery. I owe nothing to you and that damned Twins’ blood. I have been gentle enough. Get out.”

The man gawked again. Maybe growing near a river had made him half fish. Roose joigned Walda’s side, placing himself slightly behind her, stance stiff, hands behind his back.

“Well well, it is not a fat boy you have here, girl. What, you love them old and grey ? I guess endurance has never been your forte.”

Roose couldn’t avoid the flare of his anger. A bitter laugh was Walda’s answer. The sound was unfamiliar, alien when extracted from that always cheerful and happy face.

“Roose, my dear.” She had drawled every word, slowly. “Would this be considered as harassment, especially with witnesses ?”

He whispered.

“Of course. With that kind of evidence, it would not be possible to corrupt a trial.”

“Get out. Now.”

The Frey’s patriarch puffed up.

“You’ll pay for that. Both of you.”

Walda smiled.

“A threat ? How lovely of you.”

On that last words, the Frey’s pack stomped out of the bakery. In the ten next minutes, all the regulars had paid their food and were leaving with small smiles and comforting words. Walda took the time to talk to them all. After the last one left, Roose fixed his gaze on the female baker. He was not good at taking care of people. And right now, he needed to empty a good half liter of his blood before flaying some random guy to get his nerves off. He shouldn’t have been that furious.

“Good evening, Walda.”

He stormed out. She didn’t need to see him in this state.

* * *

His blood was dripping slowly in the satchel. Calming. The rage had simmered down. The bloodthirst was gone. He had even decided to let the leeching going on a bit longer, making him feel slightly dizzy. He had set a timer on his phone, felt relaxed. In two minutes exactly, he would stop the flow. He let his head fall down onto his left arm, his cheek resting on his elbow. The wood of the table was hard against his flesh. The position was not really comfortable. He had had to move back his chair to let his back bend into a somewhat not painful shape. Anyway, he wouldn’t maintain it long.

A firm knock on the door startled him. One minute and seventeen seconds on the timer. It was around six PM. He shook himself out of his loosened state, unplugged the tube from his right arm, lowered his sleeves. He quickly grabbed a knife, holding it along his left forearm. His other side was a bit numb. Then he advanced to the door. A second knock, a bit uncertain this time, broke the silence again. He positioned himself on the side, ready to dodge or hit. He unlocked the bolt and…

“Roose ! I thought you were not…”

Her eyes lowered on the blade which he maintained somewhat halfway between his body and hers. He oriented the tip to the ground, took a quick step back.

“Are you ok ?”

Her eyes had gone even softer, worry painted all over her round face. She suddenly tightened her jaw and entered, shutting the door behind her.

“Roose. Tell me what happened.”

She was… Unbelievable. He couldn’t hold back a snort. She should be afraid of him. He was good enough that reassessing a situation and stopping a move were not a problem. She wouldn’t be alive otherwise.

She let out an exasperated sigh and went to the kitchen. On her way, she spoke again : “I am absolutely not finished with you. But the meal won’t…”

What a miracle. She had stopped talking. Whatever the cause, he should probably… Seven gods be damned. He had let his leeching kit on the table. With a satchel full of his own blood. He sighed deeply.

He joined her into the kitchen. She was waiting, her grocery bag on the other end of the table, hands on her round hips. Her expression was severe.

“Care to explain ?”

“Mine.” He moved his right sleeve back up, exposing the inside of his forearm. A bruise colored his pale skin.

“Why ?”

“Was that or killing someone. Preferably one of your cousins.” He kept his tone even, watching her reaction. 

She rolled her eyes up. 

“There is a world between a murderous urge and the act.”

He fixed his gaze on hers and let out the next words slowly, to be sure they would sink in. She had to understand.

“Walda. I’ve crossed that line so much I can’t even count it.”

She was silent, holding his eyes during a few seconds that shouldn’t have seemed like an awful long time. Then she put her grocery bag on the counter, near the fridge.

“I’m making dinner. You’d better clean the table before I finished.”

His mouth went open. When he realised, he stopped gaping at her. He breathed out, then only spoke :

“Why are you still here ?”

She turned, watching him intently. Her words were soft. He couldn’t remember someone speaking that way to him.

“You didn’t stab me. You could have. You stood up for me in the bakery. I came here to thank you and cook you a nice dinner. I am exactly going to do that.”

She was resolute. When he said nothing, she went back to sorting out her ingredients. She didn’t ask for his permission to check the closets. Anyway, she had already done it when he was sick. He watched her during a few minutes and knew by her slightly tense position that she was purposely ignoring him. Finally, he got out of his dazed state and packed his kit, putting it away in his room. Then he went to the sink, brushing her, perfectly silent. She jumped, then laughed a bit nervously.

“You did that on purpose.”

“Well, I don’t have to hide anymore.”

Her smile was half-assured. But still, it was a smile.

The short travel to his room had allowed him to regain some control. He had realised he had a few choices. One of them was pushing her away brutally. He didn’t like it. He knew it was not wise, but he appreciated her presence in his life. So he had to test her limits. See if it was bravado only. Maybe she would do that dinner out of duty and then run away from him. He had to know.

He squeezed firmly the wet sponge with his left hand, then went to clean the table. When he was finished, she was cutting the vegetables. He stood on her side.

“Need a hand ?”

His tone was silk, his voice a whisper. He felt almost… Playful. He would dwell on it later.

She sighed but put the knife away.

“Are you going to stab them ?”

Her tone was falsely annoyed. The half-smile that stretched his lips was feeling natural. He kept his voice serious.

“Well, you’ve already flayed them. And you will probably boil them.”

She laughed and held the blade out to him, handle in front. He took it and replaced her in front of the chopping board. He began to slice them, noticing she was rather obviously gazing at him. After a few minutes, she took a pan and prepared the sauce.

They were surprisingly efficient and the meal was ready quickly. When they settled, it felt almost too natural, too easy. They both watched each other and Roose dismissed his light nervousness after a few bites. They were eating. It was fine. When they were finished, they lingered awkwardly around the table. Finally, Walda packed and went for the door. He walked her back. 

She was on one side of the door, him on the other, the damned piece of wood hanging open, held by his right hand. 

Walda was biting her lower lip. She obviously wanted to say something, her face serious. He noticed she had held back on the overcolored clothes this evening. Once again, he wondered what was really her, and what was the mask she presented to people. His gaze rested again on her plump lips. They seemed soft.

The realisation hit him like a truck. He desired her. 

How much of the vivid images that were now flowing his mind had been held back during the past weeks ? He wondered if the wave of warmth he felt creeping along his spine, neck and cheeks was noticeable.

He jolted when she put her bag on the ground, apparently decided. She took a step forward. He felt like a deer in front of headlights. This would not do at all. Next thing he realised, her hand was on his T-shirt, on his chest. She was slightly tilting her head upwards. Her lips barely brushed his. 

It was enough to get him out of his daze. He affirmed the kiss, pressing his mouth against her, placing a hand on her waist.

They quickly parted, fixing each other. Finally, Walda spoke.

“Good night, Roose.”

He nodded, meeting her eyes. A natural half-smile returned on his lips. She grinned back, widely, and left.

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. So I'm not sure at all for Roose.  
> But what I wanted to paint was that he is usually Roose (cold, controlled) but Walda has slowly got under his skin and he is not at all familiar with someone treating him this way (or at least someones he respects/appreciates). So I wanted him kind of unsettled and thoughtful about was he feels (because he realises he feels more than usual) but at the same point he is not familiar with feelings. And on another point he stays the cold, cautious and assured Roose. The balance was difficult to render, to say the least. I feel like I may have make him a bit too much vulnerable but Roose thinking doesn't mean the others see it. He is good at putting a mask on after all.  
> Also, I've often read Roose described by other characters and only a few of Roose's POV. Meaning, what the people perceive of him may not correspond to what he is thinking really... Hence my reasoning and what I tried to do.  
> Anyway, if you feel like you have something constructive about it, comments are welcomed :D


	7. To the cold and the oblivion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin's POV  
> TRIGGERS : death, blood, beating, physical pain  
> Disclaimer : I do not own GoT characters, they belong to GRR Martin. But I do like messing around with them !

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one came faster than the 6th. Also, 4k words. I was inspired.  
> As always, I do love comments, whatever they are so don't hesitate to criticise the work.  
> I've edited the tag and added some triggers. The scenes in this chapter and some important consequences are sparked by a violent event so be mindful if you really don't like violence. But for people used to GoT it should be just fine.
> 
> And... HUGE HUGE THANKS to Killashandra, who beta-ed this chapter. Go check her fics, I do love her work !  
> Also, I don't know if I've ever thanked her : Lulu-Folle, friend of mine who takes the time to read all the chapters and is a source of laugh, support and motivation !

When Roose barged in, Tywin felt the slight level of exasperation he constantly lived in rise suddenly. He knew his glare had no effect on the northerner but welcomed him with his hardest one anyway. 

“To what do I owe the interruption, Bolton ?”

The man ignored him until reaching the desk, his lips a thin line.

“Your grandson went overboard.”

Tywin sighed. 

“I will call the communication service then.”

“He skyrocketed. I have to take action now before it becomes public.”

The flare of his anger surprised even him. He stood up and towered over the pale man.

“We are talking of my family, Bolton. You do not need to take any action regarding them. Not without my consent.”

The northerner pushed a sheet of paper on his desk. Then a lighter followed.

When he spoke next, his voice was a soft whisper, his tone cold and detached.

“You are going to watch, then burn it. I know their location thanks to your scarred dog.”

Tywin’s ire fawned suddenly. If Bolton hadn’t mentioned the problem openly, he meant that the matter couldn’t become public. Whatever the price would be.

He took the paper.

Sansa Stark. Tied, bruised, the picture taken from the shadows of a wall. Still she looked fierce.

He burnt it.

“Have you taken your dispositions ?”

“Everything I need is ready.”

Tywin did not answer and left. Bolton would follow.

* * *

 

 In the underground parking, the northerner directed him to an unknown car. Grey, not ostentatious, one of the model the most seen on the roads nowadays. 

“We will change on the way.”

Tywin didn’t bother to speak and nodded. He hadn’t hired the man because of his security talents. There were plenty of good.companies in that kind of business. No, what Tywin was interested in were the quirks of Roose Bolton and his men.

* * *

At the back of a deserted building, away from road cameras, they changed the car. Bolton spoke.

“Do you want to be armed ?”

Tywin thought about it a mere second. He knew how to use a gun. But the northerner knew better, and his men as well. Also, Joffrey’s men wouldn’t dare to hurt him. Or at least when they realised, it would be too late. This time, he would keep his hands clean.

“No. It will be fine.”

His security chief began to drive, silent once again.

* * *

When they arrived on the outskirts of the city, thirty minutes later, they stopped at the end of a dirt road. Another car was already waiting for them.

“My men. They are already in the perimeter.”

“Any update ?”

“Joffrey used his personal car. Also, they were not careful enough to put sentries. There is a old house a hundred meters away.”

Tywin nodded. His nephew was… What was the term ? Skyrocketing, in terms of stupidity.

“We are going to stop this disaster. In case you had a doubt, Clegane, Joffrey and the Stark girl must stay alive.”

“Clegane ?”

“He is loyal, efficient and rather intelligent for a dog.”

Roose Bolton stared at him an instant, then nodded.

They walked to the house, silent, Bolton’s men on their side. Some of them went to the back.

A scream shattered the too quiet place. A masculine one.

They almost ran to the building, Tywin barely noticing the planks on the windows. He was familiar with harsh situations. But here, the mix of adrenaline, surprise and physical exercise was taking over his control.

Bolton bursted through the door and Tywin followed.

An utter bloody mess. They froze. Even Bolton couldn’t remove his gaze from the beasts. Two, grey fur, sharp fangs. They growled at them and they were huge. The fear was kicking in and the old lion, suddenly, wished he had accepted the gun from Roose’s hands earlier.

“Gr… Grand… Grandfather !”

The plaintive voice of Joffrey broke the spell. Tywin’s gaze flicked to him. He was lying on the ground, his sorry arse flat on the old tiles. His grandson was panicked and his shirt was obviously torn on his right arm. Blood trickled from the wound. Otherwise, he seemed safe.

“Lady, Nymeria, quiet.”

The voice of the redhead, pained, barely above a whisper, was immediately obeyed. The wolves backed near the chair she was tied to.

That’s when Tywin noted the small and slender figure that was working on the ropes that Sansa Stark was tied with. She seemed unfazed by the impressive creatures. She was probably a Stark herself, or a family friend. He let a deep breath come in and out of his mouth before finally taking in the global picture.

Sandor Clegane was standing in a corner, away from the mess. Mess that was currently made of three bodies, Joffrey excepted. One was already very dead, his throat deeply opened, the irregular edges of the wound being proof enough of the efficacy of fangs. 

The two others were growling in pain. Meryn Trant and Boros Blount, the damned souls of Cersei’s eldest offspring. Cruel, cowardly and stupid.

Tywin nodded to Bolton. 

Joffrey and the two Stark almost jumped. After the two gunshots, the room was deadly silent, except for his grandson’s sobs.

“Are you going to kill us ?”

The slender figure had spoken, her voice trembling slightly. She had finished untying Sansa Stark and stood near one of the huge wolves.

“Arya. He won’t.”

So it was the youngest Stark girl. Tywin filed away her boyish look and defiant gaze. Then, he turned his full attention to the redhead.

“Why not ?”

“The two Stark girls missing, their bodies found a few days later on a beach near King’s Landing  ? It would be difficult to hide. Especially since our siblings already know that something is up and that my phone has been localised by GPS.”

A flare of anger coursed again along his spine. His face remained neutral, even with the outrage he was feeling as a young woman half his age dared to talk back to him. He locked his green gaze with her vivid and clear blue eyes. He noticed the angry bruises on her face, the way her pale flesh was swollen. After a few seconds, the old lion perceived a slight mark of doubt on her features, a tiny spark of fear in her pupils. But she didn’t crumble the next seconds or the next minute. Pride and resolution, and a sort of calm strength, also resided in those eyes.

She was clearly not the stupid creature Cersei had described.

He finally took in her overall state, her torn clothes covered in dirt. They had probably touched her and would have done worse, if given the time. In a few strides he was three meters away from the chair. He stopped when a low growl remembered him the two creatures, standing between him and Sansa Stark. Tywin felt a shiver run along his back. The beasts were truly impressive. His stomach contracted. These wolves were to be feared and he was no fool. Afraid he was, and he had not been in years. He schooled his features carefully, cautious not to do any threatening gesture. He removed his jacket and held it out to the young woman. Her sister quickly stepped in and took it. 

“Cover her. The corpses will be taken care of. I expect to meet you this week to discuss the consequences of this regrettable event.”

“And you expect us to not sue you and let this idiot walk free ?”

The little one was barking, her dark hair wild, her face torn in anger, clutching the costly fabric in her hand. The word “control” was probably nonexistent in her vocabulary.

His gaze became pure cold and he spoke evenly, preventing himself from spatting at her arrogance. He was not a little hellion.

“I will take care of the matter myself. Meanwhile, you should go home with your sister and remember to be grateful when my men will disguise the characteristic bites of your wolves.”

The small girl - he couldn’t resolve himself to call her a woman - paled. How easy it was to threaten them. Their beasts could have a mouth full of fangs, yet against an army of lawyers they would not stand a chance. The redhead spoke, pained voice of wisdom.

“Arya, let’s go home.”

Her sister nodded, covered her with the jacket and supported without a complaint her taller frame. The giant wolves padded behind them, ever watchful.

He breathed. A knot he wasn’t aware of relaxed in his stomach.

“Clegane, Bolton, make sure this mess is taken care of. I’m going to talk to my grandson.”

With a flick of his wrist, he beckoned Joffrey to stand up and follow him outside. When he attained the door, he turned and watched his grandson pathetically lying on the ground.

“What are you waiting for ?”

Tywin couldn’t help but snap. His control was wearing thin. Bolton dared to shoot him a pointed look while kneeling near the corpse of Blount. Still, his warning was on point. Tywin had never seen the perceptive northerner lose his mask. His pride kicked in and he schooled his features and tone carefully as Joffrey whined.

“I am waiting for your answer.”

Fear contorted the young idiot face.

“I… I’m in pain, grandfather. I can’t stand.”.

Half stammer, half complaint. The picture of the Stark redhead leaving the place, leaning heavily on his sister but standing, clouded his mind. It took him a few heartbeats to focus completely. 

Be those wolves damned.

“Your arm is wounded. Not your legs.”

Here was the anger. At odds with his slumped and lying shape, and his whiny and strident tone. The boy’s rage had always been ridiculous.

“I’ll call mother. I need to go to the hospital. I’ll tell her everything ! You killed Blount and Trant ! You had no right !”

Tywin let him rant during a long minute. Then he advanced on his grandson and hauled him up by his bloodied collar.

“You will do no such thing. You will pass the evening in a building of mine. Someone will take care of your arm. At dawn, you will woke up and go North. You will engage at Castle Black for the next five years and you will not put a foot out of the place during this time.”

“You c… Can’t.”

“A Lannister always pays his debts. You knew the price.”

Tywin let go of the fabric and turned on his heels, going outside. He would ask Roose’s men to escort Joffrey. This way Cersei wouldn’t react in time. He suddenly clenched his fist and asked himself when he had begun to trust Roose and his mercenaries. Roose fucking Bolton, whose thirty years of life were perfectly erased. Of course he had a record in the military. It was perfect, little errors disseminated here and there to make it believable. But there was no way a carrier like this one could lead to the man he was.

Roose Bolton and his men were not to be trusted and he would do well to remember this. But right now, they were his best option.

* * *

He arranged the departure of Joffrey with the northerner. The man was efficient, as always.

“Do you want me to take care of his escort ?”

“No. I have another task for you. Tomorrow we are going to Sansa Stark’s house.”

Bolton cocked an eyebrow but nodded.

* * *

 

He was in front of the little pathway to the Stark’s house in King’s Landing. A headache gnawed slowly his way to his forehead. The day before, he had drunk a bit too much wine after being back from sending Joffrey to a hell of ice. That, added to an almost sleepless night, Cersei and the divorce, had tired him to his bones. Hence the pain pulsing at his temples.

He didn’t like going against his family. But he had done it once and would do it again. All those years he had fought fools. His enemies, his subordinates and even his own children. Even if the past week had made him weary, his old instincts had kicked in. 

The confrontation with Cersei had been a hard one nevertheless. She thought herself clever and ruthless. When she had come to him she was not even sober.

Once again he had been deceived by his own blood. His chest constricted, something close to sadness and discouragement. It was maybe the first time in his life he felt like everything was vain. The divorce itself was a disaster and threatened to destroy forty years of hard work and strategy. He glared at an olive tree a few meters away. He hated weakness. He pushed away his feelings and the picture of Cersei almost carried out of his office by Bolton. He hadn’t asked him where his daughter was kept. He supposed she was drugged heavily. 

Tywin opened the iron barrier that led to the gardens. It was not even closed. He pushed it back in place and walked a few meters. Finally he had come alone. Bolton had been reluctant to let him go, of course. The excuse of taking care of Cersei was convenient.

He watched his surroundings. The place was eerily calm. It was on the outskirts of King’s Landing. The garden, compared to the house, was impressive. The building was standing fifty meters away from the barrier. High hedges were separating the place from the outside world. He felt far away from his steel and glass building in the center of the town. The path to the house was clear, but wild grass was growing everywhere else. A few fruit trees created what seemed delicious shadows in the heat. Even if it was the end of the afternoon, the weather was heavy with the storm to come.

As he advanced to the house, he noticed an old wooden bench against one of the largest trunks. A little table was standing near, and the grass was less developed around the tree. He was less than fifteen meters away from the house, critically examining some pale yellow iris, when a sudden bolt of grey was the only warning he received.

His ass hit the ground abruptly and the air was knocked out of his lungs. He gasped, breathed again. Met two grey eyes with thin dark pupils. Tywin’s eyes traveled to the muzzle of the creature, still closed. He tried slowly to sit, but a low growl coursed through the beast and a furry paw rested, heavy, on his chest. The old lion stilled.

“Lady, what in the Seven hells ?...”

A flash of red hair appeared suddenly and two blue eyes examined the intruder critically at first, with a fascinated horror then, as the realisation hit them. She opened her mouth, closed it, speechless.

Irritation replaced Tywin’s fear.

“Miss Stark, I would strongly appreciate if you asked your beast to let me stand.”

He could see her restrain quickly a giggle. 

“Lady, off.”

Her voice had been soft and he half expected the wolf to ignore it. But the creature moved and sat near her mistress. She offered a hand. He ignored it, stood and with utmost seriousness, dusted the dirt on his suit.

Then he glared at her. She held his gaze. 

“My apologies, Mr. Lannister. Lady is usually well behaved with visitors, but the past day had made her protective.”

Even with the bruise eating half of her face, even if she was balancing on her left foot, probably relieving her right side, she remained calm and elegant.

“May I offer you a drink for the inconvenience ? The weather is too hot and it will be better to discuss matters inside.”

When she turned to the house and invited him with her hand, before walking hesitantly to the door, a tiny bit of respect ate his anger. In a few strides he was at her side. Then he measured his pace to match hers. She was very obviously in pain and yet she didn’t whine, she didn’t utter a single complaint. 

When they passed what seemed a patio door, he found himself in a huge living room. An open kitchen was on his left, sofas, armchairs and two huge coloured bean bags, orange and green, on his right. One of the bags was still marked by the crease of a body. Pillows were arranged randomly. The whole living room seemed soft and cosy.

She went to the kitchen, near the fridge.

“Can I offer you a drink ?”

Perfect manners. He almost refused. Then a trickle of sweat along his spine remembered him of the heat. 

“Water will do. Thank you.”

She locked her eyes with his. She looked surprised. Inwardly, he felt a bit amused. He could be polite, when he wanted to.

She went to a closet and began to rise her arm. Too slowly. In two strides he was near her.

“Allow me.”

His hand hovered over the closet door. She blushed.

“I can…”

“Miss Stark, you are obviously in pain.”

Her lips became suddenly thin.

“A reminder of your grandson.”

He stiffened, opened the door and took out two glasses. Then, he met her eyes. Blue and cold. No fear though. He felt something humid above his hips, something hot and heavy that leaned a bit against his left leg. The wolf. The sweat on his back turned cold.

“Miss Stark. I am here alone, unarmed.”

“But you want something from me.”

“Yes. Now, you might want to be seated.” 

She nodded and went to the living room. She slumped on the creased bag and the beast lied next to her. He sat, back stiff, on the sofa and observed her face relax a bit. He cocked an expectant eyebrow.

“My back. Can’t stand for long.”

Her answer was clipped and annoyance underlined it.

He had never seen the girl when she was still with Joffrey. Cersei had told him of a little malleable pretty thing, without much wit or spirit. Either his daughter has been wrong on the whole line, or Sansa Stark had grown quickly to bear with the worst sides of this world. It was probably both. 

If the beating had been as bad and thorough as one of her bloodshot eyes and the bruise on her cheek suggested, then she had welcomed him through sheer will.

“Have you seen someone ?”

“Going to an hospital is not really what I would call discreet.”

“I will send a competent doctor. Part of the damages may not be superficial.”

“Some won’t be.”

Anger coiled tight in his chest.

“What do you mean ?”

“They used a knife.”

And then, her breath hitched. She closed her eyes but couldn’t suppress a spasm in her whole body. Pain contorted her features, probably from her sore muscles, now taunted by half controlled shivers, maybe even a sob. The wolf whined, began to pace around the bag.

Sansa Stark was shattering in front of him. Her ringtone broke the moment and he got the phone she had put on the kitchen counter. “Arya” was written on it, white script on green background. 

He picked the call, refusing to think too much.

“San, what took you so…”

“It is Tywin Lannister. Your sister is in no state to answer.”

“You bastard ! What did you do….”

He moved the phone away from his ear until the furious threats came to a stop. Then only he spoke, cold and efficient.

“I am sending a doctor to your house. You would do well to be here so that her wolf won’t eat him. Before you ask, my grandson is on his way to Castle Black and should stay holed up there during the next five years. I will excuse your sister’s absence at KLU myself.” 

Silence welcomed his words. He hung back quickly.

He looked around, spotted some post-its. He weighed his options during a few seconds, then wrote his personal number on it. The number only his family, close associates and trusted coworkers had. He would probably regret it later. He made a quick call to a doctor used to delicate situations. He checked on the young woman. She had stopped shivering and clutched herself tightly. Her blue eyes were locked on him, on his face, mix of pain, astonishment and curiosity. Tywin poured her a glass of water and put it near the green bag. As he bent, he noticed her unstained cheeks. She had not shed a tear. His next words were soft and surprised even himself.

“Do not move. Your sister should be here soon as well as a doctor. I’ll take my leave. You had enough of the Lannister’s name for now.”

* * *

 

He was back to his penthouse around eight. He nursed a glass of scotch, eyeing the liquid during a few minutes. Then he gulped it in one go.

His chest constricted slightly when he thought about Sansa Stark. The same feeling he had when he had worried about his children. He remembered when Jaime had broken his wrist when falling from his horse. He had acted cold and efficient but deep down he had been anxious. Thoughts of Joanna came back to the surface. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to shelter against the pain, the grief, the resentment. He wondered if the wound would always feel as raw as if it was yesterday.

Next thing he knew, he took his cellphone and texted Bolton and Baratheon.

They answered quickly and thirty minutes later they were all at a table. Tywin had in front of him a tankard full of black ale.

He felt in no mood for wine and would have gulped the scotch too quickly. The more he drank, the more he appreciated the bitterness of the dark beer.

He ignored the gaze of the two other men until the thing was half empty and the northerner snatched it from his right hand. Tywin didn’t fight it.

“Robert told me Joffrey had been sent to Castle Black.” The gruff voice of Stannis cut the silence. The old lion nodded to Bolton and leaned heavily on his elbows. Sure, the ice-eyed man was efficient and described the whole mess in a few words.

He watched Stannis Baratheon scowl, a righteous anger painting his face. His next question was predictable.

“Why didn’t you go to the police ?”

Tywin sighed deeply. Be the middle Baratheon and his sacred honesty damned. He did not answer.

“How is she ?”

“No permanent damage.”

Except the cuts on her back and chest. Those, had said the doc, would leave scars. A second sentence escaped him, in almost a growl.

“She was shattering.”

He didn’t want to meet their eyes and took back his beer from Roose, drinking several mouthfuls. The northerner’s next statement was a low whisper.

“You care about her.”

He thought about denying it. But those two were perceptive.

So Tywin drank more, until his tankard was empty. Then he watched Bolton’s face, locked his green eyes on him. They were staring at each other, Baratheon as a silent referee, when a cellphone rang on the table. Roose quickly snatched it and half-muttered a curse. Then he put it screen down on the wood, apparently ignoring the call.

Tywin cocked an eyebrow. He was a quick reader.

“Walda ?”

Thin lips and cold eyes welcomed his question.

“None of your concern.”

The old lion pushed on his advantage his voice becoming falsely gentle. This way they wouldn’t concentrate on Sansa Stark. And seeing Bolton lose his composure was priceless.

“You know, if you need an evening off you could just ask.”

If possible, Roose’s soft voice dropped again and Tywin leaned on the table to hear is answer, seeing Baratheon imitate him.

“Enough.”

A sudden snort from Stannis broke the tension.

“You’d better avoid my eldest brother’s company, Bolton.” 

The northerner finished his glass quickly and went to the counter.

The next sentence coming from Baratheon’s mouth was probably not one he had wanted to say aloud.

“It is strange, imagining him with a woman.”

Tywin rotated his tankard on the table before retorting on a blasé tone. 

“Well people say the same about you.”

The younger man, surprisingly, didn’t glare at him. He locked his blue eyes on him, as if he was searching for an answer. Then he relaxed. 

A few seconds later Roose was back with three glasses. The phone of the dark-haired man rang suddenly, but contrary to the northerner he picked up the call with a frown.

Tywin observed him turn pale and ground his teeth. The old lion’s eyes crossed Bolton’s. The man nodded. He had seen as well. They waited in silence for the end of the call.

The Baratheon was clutching his phone tightly, knuckles white. Finally he put it down on the table and gulped his drink, maybe some scotch.

Only then did he look at them. He delivered the news in a hoarse, stunned voice.

“My ex-wife died. My daughter is coming back to Westeros in two days.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, little cliffhanger at the end. Next chapter is very obviously Stannis' POV.  
> I hope to get it done in two weeks ;)  
> Thanks for reading this !


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